


Liability, Leverage, and Loss

by beetle



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Backstory, Bodhi is Love, Bottom Orson Krennic, Choking, Dark, Dom Galen, Dom/sub, Dominant Masochist Orson Krennic, Edgeplay, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enter his reason for pulling himself up, Eventual Romance, Forbidden Love, Forced Relationship, Galen POV, Galen and Bodhi attempt to have a romance, Galen and Krennic do NOT have a romance, Galen is pretty messed up, Hate Sex, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Kink Negotiation, Kink Shaming, Krennic is REALLY MESSED UP, M/M, Masochism, Mildly Dubious Consent, Most of those warning tags are for the Galen/Krennic, Pre-Canon, Right Under Krennic's and the Empire's nose, Rough Sex, Secret Relationship, Sexual Coercion, Situational Humiliation, Situational Sadism, Sneaking Around, Sub Bodhi, They just have angry hateful sex, barely, sciencepilot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 04:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12028317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: It didn’treallystart the first time Imperial Engineer Galen Walton Erso saw the scruffy-skinny-pretty cargo pilot, no.It started the first time he reallynoticedhim.Prompt in end notes. Kinda on hiatus, for the time being.





	Liability, Leverage, and Loss

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: Pre-canon, then goes AU. Dark, angsty. Dom/sub relationship with little or no negotiation (two novices), BDSM. Edge-play. Feelings get caught along the way, y’all. At least by the main pairing. . . .
> 
> TRIGGER: Coercion, consent issues, choking, sadism and masochism, and dub-con ( **not** between the main pairing). Will warn before each chapter.

 

 

It didn’t _really_ start the first time Imperial Engineer Galen Walton Erso saw the scruffy-skinny-pretty cargo pilot, no.

 

It started the first time he really _noticed_ him. At least as something _more_ than a wounded-vulnerable-attractive pair of dark eyes and distracting, pouty-ish lips that only _barely_ managed not to be overshadowed by the camouflaging scruff of his not-quite beard.

 

Galen’s work routinely brought him to the facility’s cargo bay, at least several times per month, perhaps more. Unlike his colleagues and underlings, he wasn’t bothered by reminders of the tempestuous, dark, inimical climate that waited just beyond the reinforced doors of the large bay and hangar. Didn’t mind going himself to check on the arrival of the Kyber crystals Krennic had shipped to Eadu with never-ending frequency.

 

Didn’t mind associating with the pilots and navigators who risked their lives getting onto and off the nerf-herding, Force-forsaken rock Galen had been chained to for so long, the shackles no longer even chafed.

 

The pretty young pilot, Ensign Rook, had been assigned to several previous runs to Eadu with the Empire’s precious cargo. He was, despite being nervously, disconcertingly fidgety, and seemingly lacking in even basic social poise when anxious, the best of the pilots assigned to the Eadu runs. Galen, on one of his meanders to the cargo bay, had listened to Ensign Rook take landing instruction and direction with a crisp professionalism and almost eerie calm, during a particularly nasty storm. He clearly knew what he was doing, knew the bounds and limits of his abilities and was secure in them. Confident, but not hubristic and overwheening. Even Eadu’s constantly raging storms, though surely arduous, were—his sangfroid seemed to convey—a simple matter of exerting the proper focus and skill and self-control. Of maintaining serenity and determination in the face of danger and the unexpected.

 

It was, Galen supposed, an admirable mind-set. And one that the anxious young ensign spent entirely during his time in the air. For in the bay, when dealing with Galen and the occasional bored colleague who accompanied Galen, Ensign Rook was obviously discomfited and shaky. His wide, dark eyes were painfully uncertain and hopeful—earnest, and desperate for something Galen had little interest in divining. His lanky-lean body seemed to shiver and shudder as if always cold—not entirely without merit, as Eadu was colder than a Hoth hog’s left testicle—and all but swam in his rumpled overalls. His ink-black hair, already shot through with random gray strands, was always longer than regulation, messy, and pulled back into a braid or bun, yet still flying-away in escaped locks and tufts.

 

When he spoke to Galen—always with his wounded-needy gaze darting to and from the discreet sectors of Galen’s face: eyes, forehead, nose, mouth (frequently), chin, cheeks, back to Galen’s distant, grey-brown eyes for a moment—he had a tendency to gesture almost randomly. His right arm might fling out suddenly in the direction of his ship, his surprisingly graceful and elegant, long hand fluttering like a restless bat. The left hand might be clutching his manifest, or some sort of smudgy and cracked-screen data reader, alternately death-grip tight and nearly-dropped-it-again loose. All the while, his eyes would skitter ceaselessly from sector to sector, forehead to chin, cataloguing and almost confused.

 

His voice was soft and low and smooth. Surprising, from such a nervous person. Whether in the air or on the ground, Ensign Rook’s voice was always steady and sure, respectful but not obsequious. It was pleasant and warming in a way that Galen found at least as intriguing as those too-open, defenseless eyes; the spare, but gorgeously curving mouth, and that nervous, ticking, birdlike grace.

 

As Ensign Rook spoke with quiet deference about the journey and state of the inventory—none of the Kyber crystals seemed to be broken or even cracked . . . such was Ensign Rook’s uncanny skill as a pilot—Galen was, as ever, cataloguing everything about the young man.

 

Including the way Galen’s colleague, one of the only ones who’d ever bothered to accompany Galen to the bay, on occasion and—Galen suddenly realized with a slight furrow and frown he didn’t bother to hide—only when Ensign Rook was the pilot on-duty, stared at the young man with a familiarity that Galen didn’t care for.

 

There was something unpleasant and acquisitive about the set of Chernor Haslett’s sallow, bland, ungenerous face in that moment. His graying blond hair was neat and shining under the same harsh lights that washed him out even more than generations of overbreeding had, and his thin, but strangely vivid red lips were curved in the sort of smirk that had turned Galen’s stomach for almost as long as Ensign Rook had probably been alive. That sort of smirk had also, unfortunately, frequently, and for the past decade, been making Galen at least as hard as he was cold.

 

Though, even overbred Chernor was a pale imitation of the absolute master of such awful smiles.

 

Galen’s hands, nonetheless, not nearly so graceful and eloquent as Ensign Rook’s, clenched loosely, then slowly tighter as the pilot spoke and Haslett devoured with his avid, icy eyes. Galen closed his eyes for a few moments to collect himself, and instead, saw a familiar and loathed sight, which nonetheless made his body respond, well-trained as it had been to do so.

 

His hands only clenched tighter when the next image his traitor-libido supplied him with—Orson Krennic on his knees, his bright, empty-cold eyes glittering, his face a hectic, urgent purpling magenta as, directly below that face, Galen’s large, ungentle hand clenched around that fine, aristocratic neck—became Ensign Rook. On his knees, his long, elegant throat under Galen’s eager hand, and those wide, dark, give-everything-away eyes locked with achingly eager submission on Galen’s face, his gorgeous, ocher-brown skin paling just like his dusty-dusky pink lips.

 

Then darkening with the rush and stoppering of blood-flow.

 

Those eyes would give everything, indeed. Would take whatever _Galen_ chose to give.

 

And though Galen’s tastes had, of necessity for his continued survival and attempts at sabotage, grown crueler in the years since his return to the Empire—had grown teeth and claws and a hunger for wringing pleasures that were at least half-pain from willing flesh—Galen was rather surprised that his mind’s hands and his actual hands slowly eased and began to release. Not entirely, but into something that was almost, for lack of a better word, careful. Not exactly kind—Galen was far from the memories of kindness’s taste—but . . . careful.

 

Still possessed of a need to cause _pain_ . . . but free of a desire to cause suffering. Unwilling to do damage and harm.

 

Galen’s libido, undeterred by this anomalous desire, merely supplied him with the visual of his thumb stroking down that lovely throat, running along the jugular to a pronounced Adam’s apple. Tightening slightly, once again, until the ensign’s eyelashes fluttered with yearning and desperation. Until the precious and innocent life caged by his hand throbbed against his rough palm, and those tempting lips parted with slow reverence. . . .

 

“. . . alright, Engineer Erso? Sir?”

 

Galen’s eyes opened and his hands released as he focused on Ensign Rook. Not those concerned, acquiescent eyes, nor that divertingly mobile mouth. No, nor the long line of throat, nor the flyaway locks of inky-abyss hair. But on the nervous, random drumming of tapering-long fingers on Rook’s ever-present data reader. His nails were clean, but bitten-down in a way that looked painful and had probably recently been bleeding.

 

“I’m fine, Ensign Rook . . . merely fighting a slight headache,” Galen said automatically, and for the clench-jawed, grit-toothed sound of his normally modulated and emotionless voice, he was extremely convincing. And his head was, because of that clenching, gritting tightness, beginning to give a few warning throbs that were in time to the mindless alacrity of his tense, angrily aroused body. He needed the privacy of his office to calm himself down. His tunic was well-fitted, and would not cover his rapidly growing erection for much longer. “Please, continue. Quickly . . . I need to return to my duties shortly.”

 

“Ah, right. Yeah. _Yes_. Of course, sir,” Rook said, low and respectful, and went on with his report faster and in less detail. Chernor kept smirking and devouring the pilot as if he was a delicious and unguarded meal. Galen merely nodded and brooded down at Rook’s agile-tense hand and its decimated nails, with their suggestions of recent blood. Nodded . . . and made firmly considering noises where appropriate.

 

At the earliest opportunity, he excused himself with a bare nod of approval and dismissal at the young pilot, and took himself off, back to his office. It wasn’t until he’d gotten his body’s rather ravenous, predatory desires under something approaching control—and immersed himself once more in Stardust, despite his head having gone beyond warning throbs to giving displeased, light-sensitive thuds—that he realized that Chernor had not followed him out of the cargo bay, let alone to the engineering department.

 

Nor did the man return to his duties for the rest of the admittedly near-finished day.

 

By the time Galen also abandoned the offices and labs where he spent most of the hours of most of his days, his head was an ache so constant, he could no longer distinguish between throbs. Likewise, his prick felt oversensitive and overheated, ridiculous and obvious. He refrained from tugging on his tunic or shifting about, and drawing attention to the problem, which hopefully went unnoticed all the way to his quarters. Though, at this point, Galen barely cared what his colleagues saw or thought of him, as long as they let him be and didn’t pay him or his work undue attention.

 

Thus, it was, when he found Orson Krennic in his quarters—not at all unexpectedly, perfect in his uniform, except for the cape and ridiculous hat, his hateful, talented mouth curled in a sneer and his mocking, keen-bright eyes glittering with his wants and needs—Galen didn’t even bother to engage in one of their usual contempt-laden exchanges that preceded the real reason for the visits. He simply stepped smartly into his quarters, striding up to Krennic, into the other man’s space as if he owned it—which was laughable, since they both knew who owned whom and what, in this arrangement, despite the games in which Krennic liked to indulge—reaching up to grasp the smaller man’s neck hard and tight.

 

Krennic licked his slightly parted lips smugly, not even bothering to chuff out the callous banalities that passed for banter in his twisted mind. He merely smirked and glittered up at Galen hungrily, with the sort of demanding challenge that Galen had been powerless to ignore for far too long.

 

 _Take me, if you dare, Erso_ , Director Orson Krennic’s entire being taunted. _Commanded_.

 

And Galen, obedient tool of the Empire that he was, complied without words or hesitation.

 

With a snake-quick shake of Krennic’s neck, he forced the other man down onto his knees. Krennic went with a soft cry and a pained grunt, and Galen continued to bear-down on that smooth, bruiseable column until Krennic, with a raging, desperate, and hot-eyed glare, opened his devious mouth.

 

Galen sneered down at him and tightened his grip, until Krennic was red, and his gaze was bleary and disoriented. But the other man still had the wherewithal to reach up with tremoring, but nimble fingers, and do what Galen expected of him. What they both wanted and needed to happen next.

 

When Galen’s unfastened, gray trousers were a puddle at his feet, his prick jutting beyond the hem of his tunic, and up and out of greying-brown pubic hair—angry-red and wet at the tip—Krennic’s wide, jangled, anticipatory gaze drifted meanderingly up to Galen’s impassive face. He was clearly gearing up to say something he fancied cutting, shaming, and hurtful. Were the man not so overconfident about his own cleverness, Galen could have long since disabused him of the notion that anything he said or did to Galen was more cutting, shaming, and hurtful than the things Galen said to himself. The things he _did_ to himself . . . namely using Krennic at all, and letting the human viper use him right back.

 

 _I_ dare _you to speak to me, at this moment, Orson. I dare you to make me choke you out, while I take your mouth as hard as I can. I dare you to_ push me, Galen said with nothing but the hatred and disgust in his eyes, not the least of which was aimed at himself. _We both know I’ll take what I need whether you’re conscious or not, then let you make your own way to the Med Bay for tending yet again. Push me. I dare you._

 

Krennic licked his purpling lips with a slow, labored tongue and tried to shore up his smirk. But before he could really manage it, Galen had shoved his prick into the other man’s vile, spiteful mouth and most of the way down his throat.

 

He didn’t even wait for Krennic to stop gagging before he used that mouth and throat to vent his every frustration and grievance. Against the Empire and one of its highest representatives. Against the universe and the Force that ruled it so exactingly and fairly, but without kindness or mercy.

 

At no point, while Krennic choked and coughed and gagged around him, did Galen close his eyes. He had no interest in ignoring what was actually happening or pretending it was happening with someone else. Had no interest in sullying Lyra’s sacred memory.

 

No interest in imagining the face he was hate-fucking with every ounce of his strength and suffering was Ensign Bodhi Rook’s, either.

 

Galen hadn’t liked himself enough to _lie_ to himself in a very long time.

 

But as impending orgasm shuttered his vision of Krennic’s magenta-purple face with a velvet cloak of blessed darkness, the _ensign’s_ young, open face—those _eyes_ , that _mouth_ , and the elegant length of _throat_ below them—bloomed in his mind’s eye, bringing with it a flash of white light and an orgasm like flying and floating. Like burning and freezing.

 

Like falling and dying. . . .

 

Like the tentative resurrection-twitches of a hope he’d thought mere memory, turned ash.

 

In the agony of his ecstasy, Galen lost all track of time and of the intensity of his grip. And by the time he came back to himself, panting and tingling and spent—cold, despite feeling fevered and being drenched in sweat—it was to find himself on his shaking-aching knees before Krennic’s prone, mostly-unconscious, weakly chuff-coughing body. The other man’s face was still quite red and distressed, the lower third smeared with a few streaks of Galen’s release. His uniform was still crisp and pristine, however, but for the area immediately around his open fly. The fabric there, and Krennic’s half-hard, poking-out prick, were soiled and tacky with his own come.

 

There was already a wide necklace of vivid bruises darkening around his neck, in the shape of Galen’s wide, square hand and thick, blunt fingers.

 

Galen huffed without surprise or curiosity, and levered himself to his feet. Made his way to the small, personal bar his rank and years of service to the Empire had afforded him, and poured himself a generous helping of aged bourbon. He drank steadily and stared into space, in the direction of his ‘fresher while eventually, after he’d had two more drinks and was midway through the fourth, Krennic regained his cogence and pulled himself together.

 

At least enough to attempt to talk, more was the pity.

 

Krennic coughed out a few irritated, snarky, nonsense-syllables—probably more to catch Galen’s distracted attention, than to communicate desires and expectations they both knew by rote, after nearly ten years. Galen knocked back the rest of the bourbon in one long, burning swallow and didn’t bother to look at Krennic as the other man struggled to his knees. Then to his feet, and still with the occasional cough. And a few hoarse chuckles. Galen didn’t even have to imagine the smirk. The smug flicker in those cobalt eyes. The snide words of goading and ridicule on that greedy, whorish mouth he despised so bitterly.

 

“Save your scathing wit and let’s just get on with it, Orson,” he grunted, flat, and without inflection or interest. As ever, he was already starting to get hard again. He could and had fucked Krennic without mercy or quarter for well into the night and the following morning more times than he could count, or cared to. That mocking, clever mouth was often both _aperitif_ and _digestif_ , bookending the fever-and-perdition-hot _entrée_ that was Krennic’s resistant, resilient, castigation-craving, and punishment-addicted body. And _Galen’s_ body, unlike his mind, had never had any issues with compliance, and the expectations and demands of his superiors. As exemplified by the familiar, scripted-feeling statement falling from his tingly-numb, rue-twisted lips. “Take off your trousers, bend over the arm of the sofa, and hold yourself open. And don’t. Speak.”

 

TBC

**Author's Note:**

> Rogue One Kink Meme Prompt: [Galen knows that Krennic wouldn't hesitate to use his relationship with Bodhi against him.](http://rogueonekink.dreamwidth.org/1084.html?thread=57916#cmt57916)! 
> 
> [I Tumble here](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com) :-)


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